Passing Of The Old Year Poem by Mary Weston Fordham

Ah! the year is slowly dying,
And the wind in tree-top sighing,
Chant his requiem.
Thick and fast the leaves are falling,
High in air wild birds are calling,
Nature's solemn hymn.

In the deep, dark forest lingers,
Imprints of his icy fingers,
Chill, and dark, and cold.
And the little streamlets flowing,
Wintry sun so softly glowing,
Through the maple's gold.

So, Old Year, gird on your armor,
Let not age, nor fear, nor favor,
Hurry you along.
List! the farewell echoes pealing,
List! the midnight hour is stealing,
Hark! thy dying song.

Say, Old Year, ere yet your death knell
Rings from out you distant church bell,
Say, what have you done?
Tell of hearts you've sadly broken,
Tell of love dead and unspoken,
Ere your course is run.

Tell the mother who doth languish,
O'er her graves in silent anguish,
She will see again,
Blooming bright 'beyond the river,'
Living on for aye and ever,
Every bright-eyed gem.

Ah! full many a spirit weary,
You have wooed from paths so dreary,
Wafted them above.
Now they say Old Year , we bless thee,
Raise thy head, we would caress thee
For this home of love.

On thy brow lies many a furrow,
And thy eyes tell many a sorrow
Hath its shadow cast.
But thy task is almost ended,
Soon the path which thou hast wended,
Will be called the ' Past .'

Then, old dying year we hold thee,
To our hearts we fondly fold thee,
Ere the midnight bell.
Soon thy race will now be ended,
With Eternity be blended,
So, Old Year, farewell.